


Our Song Lives On

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Mutual Pining, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: After Chapeau defends the lady of the castle against her husband's rage, the pair risk everything as they embark on a secret romance that continues to blossom well into Adam's childhood."He feels panic rise within—what if the Master found them here? What impression would he possibly make? This was her realm, after all; Maria-Eleanor dappled in sunshine, scented with white roses. He is an intruder, a member of the servant staff, where he is relegated to shadow. Their paths should not cross like this, not even for something as simple as a kerchief."





	1. Confrontation Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I probably shouldn't be starting another fic, but this idea has been in my head for a while and suddenly I started writing... This is based on a lot of the headcanons for Chapeau that I rambled on Tumblr about. Some might be connected/in order, some might not. I love writing Chapeau fics, so I figured I'd start a place to put them all. Hope you like it! Let me know what you think. Comments are always lovely!

A spider’s web catches Chapeau in the face, ribbons of silk tangled across his nose and onto strands of his mouse brown hair. He sneezes and angles his tall body away from what’s left of the offending cobweb while swatting away the wisps that tickle his skin. Behind him in the narrow, dusty service corridor, Lumière laughs and dodges the low-hanging webs, moving ahead of him. With their workday finished, both have done away with their overcoats and formal wigs. Lumière pauses in the corridor to brush stone dust off his linen shirt though the effort is useless. Chapeau nearly topples into him, still half blinded by spider silk that refuses to detach itself from his face.

“ _Mon ami_ ,” Chapeau says when Lumière makes a face and flicks a pebble from his shoulder, “you are fighting a losing battle, no? Even Plumette cannot keep up with the state of these corridors.” 

“ _Oui_ ,” Lumière agrees. “She has nightmares about them, my Plumette.”

“Come, I told Cuisiner we would be to the kitchens by now. He will be expecting us.” Chapeau brushes past him, their shoulders colliding.

Lumière spends a few moments longer preening—even dressed so casually, he cannot help himself—until Chapeau hears his footsteps resume behind him. It still feels strange to Chapeau to have these moments, moments where they are not merely objects at the beck and call of the Master and his wife. Where he has found a family of his own beyond the tiny village he left behind when he arrived on the castle’s doorstep. He is grateful for Lumière, whose friendship and brotherhood means more to him than he can possibly understand. They are but a few years apart from each other in age, but without Lumière’s tutelage and expertise in all things, Chapeau would still be shy and mute.

In his heart, he is still a boy from Villeneuve. A young man rough around the edges, borne of a simple country life. The son of a milliner and a violinist, not made for a world of finery and elegance reserved for the noble class. Though his job is to linger in the shadows of that world, Chapeau still cannot comprehend his proximity to it.

“Perhaps he has some dessert left,” Lumière muses. “The chocolate creams looked _magnifique_ —”

“ _Shh_ ,” Chapeau says, his tone sharp. Lumière’s words trail away, cutting off what Chapeau assumes would have been his friend waxing poetic about tonight’s dessert menu, down to the exact flavor and aesthetic of the decadent food.

“What is it?” One of Lumière’s eyebrows lifts. His voice has fallen into a whisper.

“Do you hear that?” Chapeau steps closer to the wall, ignores the cobwebs and dirt to lay his palms against the stone. In the castle’s vast, reaching corridors and rooms, he has found that noise travels easily. Loudly.

He knows the sound of anger when he hears it. He can almost _feel_ it, the rage passing through stone, sending a chill down his spine. The Master’s fury is an entity unto itself and something that Chapeau has seen before his eyes on far too many occasions to be comfortable. He presses himself closer to the stone, his body now attuned to the outbursts, almost waiting for them at every turn.

His muscles tense. “The Master,” Chapeau whispers. “He is at it again, Lumière.” Loathing creeps into Chapeau’s voice, a coldness he can barely recognize as his own.

“You know his temper,” Lumière reminds him, but it doesn’t stop the anger from seeping into his bones, rising like the swell of a wave. Lumière curses, listening to the booming tones that reach them from somewhere beyond the service corridor. “He is nothing _but_ his temper, no? There is not a man to be found, only anger and hatred.”

“Like a poison,” Chapeau agrees.

“ _Oui_ ,” Lumière says. He moves to place a hand on the top of Chapeau’s shoulder. “I pray that it does not infect the child.”

Chapeau shakes his head. He refuses to even think about the prospect. “ _Non_ , the lady will never allow it.”

“That is what I am afraid of.”

His heart gives a little leap of fear at that. Chapeau knows there is no love between the Master and his wife; it is a marriage of arrangement, not affection. So when he hears her voice—sweet and melodic like birdsong on a warm spring afternoon—the panic rises so quickly that it almost makes him nauseous. Chapeau cannot hear the words being thrown back and forth between them like volleys of musket fire, but he knows the lady of the house is crying. He can feel the unsteady rhythm of her words, the keening that bridges the gap of silence.

It tears at his soul.

What he feels for her…he dares not to acknowledge it at all. It _should not_ be, but it is. And he has allowed it to blossom within his heart.

Chapeau pushes off the wall and makes for the nearest exit, Lumière on his heels. He feels Lumière’s hand wrap around his wrist: a warning.

“Chapeau,” he begs, uselessly. “Chapeau, you cannot!”

He doesn’t say a word, his feet moving swiftly toward the door, his pulse like a drumbeat in his ears.

“ _Emile_ ,” Lumière tries again, resorting to Chapeau’s given name as a last effort.

It doesn’t work. Not in the slightest. He is out the door in moments, and Lumière doesn’t follow. Adrenaline surges in Chapeau’s veins. His hands curl into fists at his sides; though he’s too far gone to hear the barrage of insults stinging the air, the Master’s voice, deep and sharp as a rose’s thorn, propels him in their direction. Chapeau is now a man in the early years of his twenties, but the reckless, scrappy penchant for a fight has not yet left him. He knows somewhere in the corner of his mind where he’s stowed away reason that it is not wise for him to be doing this. He _knows_ , but he’s halfway there and he cannot be stopped.

He cannot let this pathetic excuse for a man hurt her. Especially not now, not in the delicate state she’s in.

“ _Stop!”_ Chapeau shouts. His pulse is all he can hear, but the word has broken through somehow, forcing the hallway to submit to silence with its weight.

The lady of the house dares a glance at him, bright blue eyes awash in tears, her cheeks flushed. Before the Master can even register his unwanted intrusion, Chapeau forces his way in between them, hands braced against the Master’s chest. It seems as if he is staring at himself from a distance, his body no longer in his possession, crossing a boundary so unthinkable that he can barely begin to understand the consequences.

The Master’s lip curls into a snarl and he blinks, slowly. Something flashes in his dark eyes that seems to echo Chapeau’s disbelief.

He opens his mouth, but Chapeau is faster. “If you lay your hands on her again—”

“What, boy?” the Master answers through gritted teeth. “Is that a _threat_?”

“I have been quiet for far too long.” His breathing comes in shuddering gasps, his voice firm and clear. “I’ll not let you harm her or the child, since you seem to care for neither.”

It happens so quickly that Chapeau doesn’t see it, but he _feels_ it, the explosion of pain that pierces the side of his head, then across his clenched jaw and the bridge of his nose. He’s knocked off balance, all traces of his street fighting instincts leaving him in an instant, rendering him vulnerable. The Master’s walking stick comes down on his shoulder once he’s sprawled over the cool marble on his back. An endless assault continues over his chest and stomach, until finally Chapeau curls inward onto his side, his arms cradling his head. Chapeau’s ears are ringing and he’s slightly dazed from the first hit—it is a small mercy, he thinks, that he travels away from himself again to endure the pain.

As the storm fades, he rolls onto his back once more, staring up at the cruel eyes of the castle’s master. Somewhere in the background, though he can only see the edge of her petticoats, the lady of the house is crying, calling for her husband to _stop, please stop, you’re going to kill him…_

“Know your place, boy.” The Master’s walking stick hovers above him, dangerously close to his throat. “I’ll see to it that you never get another job in service for your insubordination.”

Chapeau groans in response. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the clean marble. The Master disappears down the hallway, but the Lady’s face suddenly swims into his vision. She reaches a hand toward him, sniffling, tears staining her pale cheeks. Her other hand rests on top of her growing stomach.

“Come, wife.” The biting command makes her hand recoil, her body tense. The Master’s voice seems to fill up the silence, consuming it, ruling over everything in its path. “Leave him.”

He listens to her soft footsteps recede, frozen in place. Chapeau wills his sore body to move, to chase after her and keep her from the monster’s reach. She carries the Master’s heir—perhaps the only one she will give him if fortune grants them a boy—so Chapeau prays that no harm will come to her. He doesn’t want to think of what might happen once she’s out of sight.

He knows nothing else but pain. Warm blood trickles down the side of his face and runs into his eyes, bright red. He tastes it on his tongue, feels it coating his fingers.

 _Better me than her_ , he thinks, numb from the throbbing in his head that threatens to split it in two. _That bastard._ He’d wanted to strike him down (his job be damned), but he’d let the old man catch him off guard. A foolish mistake. What had he been thinking?

 _You were thinking of her_ , his mind chastised. _Only of her_.

Chapeau couldn’t argue with himself. He’d garnered such a reputation on the streets of Villeneuve—a fact for which his mother blamed her gray hairs; the poor woman, he always worried her so—only to be bested by a man who’d never sparred for sport in his life. If Chapeau wasn’t in agony already, he would kick himself for it.

_That bastard._

He stares up at the high, arched ceilings of the hallway until darkness overtakes him.


	2. A White Rose

Chapeau’s mind swims in the darkness where pain cannot reach him. He is grateful for the reprieve and lets himself float away, caught between consciousness and whatever abyss has wrapped itself around him. When he wakes, Chapeau expects a world where every muscle protests, where it hurts to breathe, where he’ll be tossed out onto the castle’s front steps never to return.

The thought of going back to Villeneuve fills him with such dread that he can hardly stand it. Chapeau loves his family—he is certain of this, no matter how much his sisters may pester him night and day—but what is a life when he’s left penniless? He was never adept at millinery; his hands were more like his father’s, plucking melodies from his violin. What sort of life could be made from that? What would he be without the family he’d found here at the castle?

No, he cannot bear it. Not now.

So, he stays in the safety of the darkness. It’s not long before his mind wanders to her, the fair lady of the household. It’s a familiar place, one he’s visited in daydreams, in sleepless nights tucked away in the castle’s servant’s quarters. He tries to grasp at a memory, flicking through them like a deck of playing cards until he stumbles upon the right one. It’s bittersweet; he can hear her weeping echo before the memory even materializes.

Chapeau finds himself among castle gardens, golden sunlight filling up a warm spring day, the scent of flowers strong in the air. He doesn’t recall what he had been doing that afternoon to warrant his presence in the gardens, but he is thankful for it anyway. Her weeping is quiet, as if she is trying to stifle it without much success. At first, he remembers, he mistook her for one of the maids, homesick and hiding out amongst the sunflowers for a moment alone. But then he finds her—hair spun like gold, bright green petticoats spilling around her ivory heels, her shoulders trembling with the weight of her crying.

She’s a vision nevertheless, surrounded by white roses that have just begun to bloom for the season. They’ve started to spiral around the stone colonnade, offering her shelter from whatever has troubled her. Chapeau has his suspicions, but he keeps them to himself for the moment. He is new; it’s not his place to speak of such things. He’s seen her here before on occasion when she isn’t nestled in her favorite drawing room with a book in front of the fire. Before, she always seemed to be waiting for the roses to bloom, waiting for the winter’s last bite to be relinquished by the spring sun. Chapeau is careful when he approaches; he doesn’t want to startle her, and most of all, he doesn’t want to tread where he isn’t wanted. He knows she must seek this quiet spot in the gardens to keep it for herself, and it isn’t his to encroach upon.

But still, the sight of her lost to the depths of emotional anguish tears away at him. Surely, someone should be looking after her. If the Master had raised his hand to her again…

Chapeau tugs a kerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and takes a few tentative steps in her direction. His voice is quiet. “My lady.”

After a second’s pause, she lifts her face from the shelter of her hands. She sniffles, her eyes rimmed red, her cheeks flushed and wet with tears. It’s the first time he’s seen her like this, utterly broken, the bright blue of her eyes haunted by something much darker. Chapeau thinks he’s heard her crying before, but he’s never intervened, not until now. The Princess Maria-Eleanor he has always seen in the castle was full of bright, welcoming smiles and infectious laughter around the dinner table. _She_ had been the one to hire him several months ago, despite his job being to serve the Master. She had made him feel welcome as he struggled to adjust in a vastly different life away from home.

She takes his offering, dabbing at her cheeks and nose. “Sit,” she tells him, and for a few long seconds that feel like a lifetime, Chapeau is reluctant.

“Please,” she continues and peers up at him from behind the kerchief. “I insist, _monsieur_.”

Chapeau takes a breath at last, then folds his lithe body onto the stone bench, careful to leave an appropriate amount of space between them. He feels panic rise within—what if the Master found them here? What impression would he possibly make? This was _her_ realm, after all; Maria-Eleanor dappled in sunshine, scented with white roses. He is an intruder, a member of the servant staff, where he is relegated to shadow. Their paths should not cross like this, not even for something as simple as a kerchief. It’s much too intimate.

Princess Maria-Eleanor doesn’t seem to pay mind to it. “I am sorry you found me in such a state, Monsieur Chapeau.” She pats at the tender space under her eye, and Chapeau forces a smile despite the ache in his chest.

“Not at all, my lady,” he says. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. Are…you all right?” The question doesn’t feel like it’s his to ask, but it leaves his mouth anyway.

When she exhales, it sounds like it’s the first time she’s allowed herself the privilege in months.

“I don’t know.”

Birds perch along the colonnade and fill the silence with their song. Chapeau watches them flit about for a minute or two, their bright plumage visible through the new leaves. Princess Maria-Eleanor does not elaborate. Chapeau knows it’s not an inquiry to pursue further, and the last thing he wants is to provoke tears again. But he hates how haunted she appears, hates how it’s taken him this long to notice it.

He tries something else, instead. “The roses are coming in beautifully, are they not? I’ve never seen a rose the color of fresh snow.”

She brightens, a little, rising off the bench with his kerchief still clutched in one of her fists. Cupping one of her palms beneath one of the roses that has fully bloomed, she tilts it downward so she can breathe in the scent. Chapeau watches her eyes flutter close as though it’s carrying her far away, if only for a moment.

“Not in Villeneuve?” she asks. “I remember the town square absolutely _filled_ with flowers.”

“You…you’ve been to the village, my lady?” Maybe the thought is foolish, but he assumed her confined to the castle, or at least more suited to the opulence of Paris and Versailles.

“On several occasions, when I can manage it.” She plucks the rose from its stem and cradles it in her palm. Her gaze flitters to him. “I enjoy meeting the villagers. I feel it’s important to maintain a healthy relationship with them, get to know them if I can. Though I have not convinced my husband…I fear my trips to Villeneuve will be coming to an end.”

Chapeau folds his hands in his lap, eyes cast to the ground. “I am sorry for that.”

“I should not burden you with such problems.” Princess Maria-Eleanor sighs, fingertips tracing the petals.

“You should not burden yourself, either,” Chapeau offers before he can stop himself. “It does not help one’s heart to keep everything locked away.”

The corner of her lips tilt upward, though it is fleeting. She paces in front of him and holds out the rose, overturning one of his hands so that his palm faces outward. Her fingers are warm, soft, when they brush against his. He feels the velvety petals in the center of his palm as she presses it into his grasp. When she settles down next to him again, her petticoats sweep against his thigh.

“They came with me from England—the white roses,” she explains while Chapeau memorizes the delicate flower in his palm with the pad of his thumb. “My mother kept them in our garden, and she would let them grow so that they climbed up the side of our home. I’d leave my bedroom window open at night, and the scent was strong enough to fill up the room and lull me to sleep. I took a clipping before I left for France…I don’t know how they survived the journey, but I’m grateful for it.”

The smile that finally takes up her face fades with the thought. She sniffles again, though the tears don’t follow.

“Do they visit the castle often? Your family?” Chapeau asks. A line feels like it has been crossed—at least temporarily—and the question doesn’t feel too intrusive.

Princess Maria-Eleanor sighs. Her voice trembles with the tears that don’t fall. “No.” She shakes her head, then averts her eyes up to the blossoming roses. “I haven’t seen them since my husband and I were wed. He isn’t terribly fond of my family, so our communication is kept through letters. I don’t hear from them for months at a time. I’ve tried to arrange for them to stay at the castle with us for the holidays, but…he will not allow it.”

A few tears finally escape, and Chapeau has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking ill of the Master. He cannot forget himself…but the distress on Princess Maria-Eleanor’s face returns like a raging storm. Her breath comes in gasps, and after she has composed herself, she takes a steadying breath. The air tenses, charged as if waiting for something.

“I’m with child.” The declaration burns at Chapeau’s ears like he’s not meant to have heard it. But Princess Maria-Eleanor holds his gaze, a single tear traveling down her cheek.

“Is this not a joyous occasion?” he inquires, his voice barely above a whisper. “Surely, the Master will be pleased to—”

“I haven’t yet told him,” she confesses. “The secret has been my own for nearly a month now. I cannot bear the thought… _his_ child. I try to summon the courage to tell him, but it leaves me the moment I look into his eyes.”

Chapeau feels the panic swell again. The line they’ve crossed, whatever it is, seems bigger than he anticipated. And he isn’t sure if they are capable of undoing what they’ve done now. Had she truly trusted him enough with this most precious secret?

“This child will be yours, too, my lady,” he tries. “Perhaps there is some joy to be found there.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She twists the kerchief in her hands. “But I fear bringing a child into his home. I know it’s what is expected of me, but he does not have the temperament for child rearing.”

“And you?” Chapeau asks. “Any child would be fortunate to have you as their mother.”

Princess Maria-Eleanor smiles. “Perhaps if I am blessed enough to give him a son, he will be reasonable with me.” She exhales deeply, then brushes off her petticoats and rises to her feet. “Thank you, Monsieur Chapeau. It is not often I find a willing ear to listen to me with such patience…at least not in this way.”

“I am at your service, my lady,” Chapeau says. “Rest assured.”

“I trust that this shall be kept between us?” she whispers to him, pressing the damp kerchief into his empty palm.

Chapeau nods. “Your secret is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in forever...things have been crazy! Hope you enjoyed this anyway.
> 
> Special thank you to my friend tinydooms, who let me use the name for Adam's mother. You should totally check out her latest fic because it's lots of fun and has some amazingly detailed backstory for Adam's mother and her family.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated, as they keep me writing!


	3. Confrontation Part II

“Chapeau.”

The voice echoes, drawing him back to the present. It’s vaguely familiar—he knows this voice, he’s sure of that—but it’s warped through the confusing, distant pitch-black of unconsciousness.

“ _Chapeau_.”

He thinks he feels tapping now; a light, insistent press of fingertips against his cheeks. There’s a soft glow of candlelight mottled across his closed eyelids, and it hurts already so he’s resistant to opening them. Someone hovers above, radiating both warmth and concern, the rustle of fine linen impossibly loud to Chapeau’s ears.

“Emile,” Lumière says, nearly exasperated, cradling Chapeau’s head in his careful hands, “open your eyes, _mon ami_.”

Chapeau groans instead. The pain returns to his conscious body all at once, like he’d been dragged under carriage wheels and left in a muddy ditch somewhere. He doesn’t dare move, not when every muscle is screaming at him. Not when his head pounds its own drumbeat and the taste of blood is still fresh on his tongue. He coughs, but it feels like daggers piercing his lungs, clawing at raw muscle and bruised flesh.

He groans again because it’s all he’s capable of doing. At the very least, it seems to appease Lumière, who exhales a heavy sigh of relief. Some part of Chapeau is thankful that the Master did not kill him, though he isn’t sure that the sentiment is mutual. In the end, it’s thoughts of the Master that finally make him decide to open his eyes—the image of him and his infamous scowl. His body gives an involuntary twitch as his muscles remember the attack. The thought of his iron-like fingers snaked around the princess’ wrist…

Chapeau tries to sit up, feels the panicked words across his tongue, but they don’t form into anything coherent. His mind, frustrated by his body’s numb, agonizing slowness, yells at him to move, to find her and rescue her from the Master’s cruelty. Chapeau is certain now that he is no longer employed by the castle; if he could just take her along with him…

 _She is a_ princess, a rational part of his mind breaks through what’s been addled by pain and hysteria, _and now you are nothing but a musician. It will never work, you lovesick fool._

“Careful, now, Emile,” Lumière says, a hand braced against his back. Chapeau takes a few steadying breaths and begins to survey the damage. “That’s it.”

His head is still throbbing its relentless march, and Chapeau feels as if he might go mad from it or pass out again. The metallic scent of his blood is strong enough to make his stomach roil; he feels it on his skin, sees it splattered across his clothes and the polished marble of the floor beneath him.

“The princess,” he gasps, finally.

Lumière shakes his head, effectively dismissing the question, blue eyes sorrowful. Chapeau swallows down his own panic— _how long had he been out? What could have possibly happened while he drifted in-between?_ —and lets his eyes close, for a moment.

“Come, _mon ami_ , let’s get you fixed up, yes?”

 

 ***

By some miracle, he ends up down in the kitchens, perched on top of a counter with a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel pressed against his head. He doesn’t remember the perilous journey down flights of stairs and through the service corridors, but he’s uttered his thanks to Lumière for his patience at least a dozen times since. Lumière continues to tend to his wounds, gently holding a blood-stained hand towel to Chapeau’s damaged nose. Chapeau tries not recoil too much, but the throbbing pain is beginning to rival the one in his head.

 “Ah, you are lucky,” Lumière announces, dodging Chapeau’s incredulous stare. “Nothing appears to be broken.”

He doesn’t know if he agrees with that, but he nods anyway. Lumière deposits the stained towel into the kitchen waste that has yet to be disposed of, and Chapeau tries not to concentrate too hard on the ache in his temples.

“Here, _monsieur_ ,” Cuisinier says, appearing at Chapeau’s side after his booming voice has heralded his presence, warm as very the kitchen in which they sat. He presents Chapeau with a slice of pie leftover from this evening’s dessert, the china plate overflowing with fruit filling and cream whipped into delicate peaks.

“You had better enjoy this one, hmm? From all accounts, it looks as though you’ll be leaving us soon.” Cuisinier’s voice is thin, edged with a sadness that Chapeau hasn’t heard from him before.

Anger, teasing—Cuisinier had damn near perfected both in the hallowed rooms of his domain, but this isn’t their typical banter, he knows. For a moment, Chapeau almost regrets all that’s brought him to this point. It will be miserable to leave this place; his friends, these nights spent after hours in the kitchens getting into as much trouble (and alcohol) as their jobs would allow.

Lumière tries at optimism. “We do not know that, not yet. Perhaps all will work itself out, no?”

“Do you think this is the work of a merciful man?” Cuisinier gestures at Chapeau, eyes wide.  

“ _One_ mistake—”

“That is all it takes, Lumière,” Cuisinier interrupts, shaking his head. “He has fired servants for less.”

Lumière sinks into a chair, shoulders laden with defeat. “Perhaps…he will see reason. Chapeau has done a fine job in this castle, and to go searching for another valet would be…exhausting. I will talk to him.”

“ _No_ ,” Chapeau and Cuisinier answer at once.

The fire in the kitchen hearth crackles, filling up the silence. Chapeau watches the peaks of whipped cream lose their shape and slide down the edges of the pie. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. The weight of his new reality has finally begun to fall into place—how long will he have before the Master seeks him out? Chapeau envisions himself on the doorstep of his mother’s millinery shop, the painful, bitter look of disappointment on her face when she sees him, sees how he’s failed. She’d been overjoyed at his employment, bragged about his status at the castle to her friends in the village. And what had he done? Thrown it all away for a love that could never be reciprocated.

One of Chapeau’s hands curl into a fist. He knows this is only partly true; he doesn’t regret keeping the lady of the castle out of harm’s way, especially in her condition. _No_ , he doesn’t regret that for one single second. Perhaps his mother will see that, too, for she will know better than anyone how Chapeau’s compassionate streak has a vicious habit of getting him into all sorts of trouble.

Lumière buries his face in his hands, and Chapeau hears the familiar dramatic wail creep into his friend’s voice. “I tried to stop you, _mon ami_ , why didn’t you _listen_?”

He cannot reveal what truly lies in his heart, though it hurts to keep it locked inside. Chapeau knows what he feels is unreasonable, even dangerous. And Lumière will do everything in his power to dissuade him from whatever he feels, despite everything now being futile.

“I think, Lumière,” Cuisinier says, upon returning from one of the rooms off the kitchens, “Our boy may be in need of something a little stronger than apple pie.”

Chapeau hears the pop of a cork, and it isn’t long before Cuisinier is shoving a glass of their favorite (and often stolen from the castle’s immense cellar) brandy into his hand. Lumière downs half his glass in one enormous gulp, and Chapeau soon follows suit, draining the liquid until his throat burns and his own glass is empty.

“Perhaps I can hide one of these in your bag,” Cuisinier muses, glancing at the bottle. “A parting gift.”

Chapeau thinks the idea unwise, for he’s sure that it will be gone before he’s able to stumble back into Villeneuve. Lumière’s face is stricken at the prospect of Chapeau’s leaving, but somehow he is speechless. In an attempt to keep himself contained, he pushes his now empty glass into Cuisinier’s face, downs another brandy in record time, and for a moment, it almost feels like another night in the castle’s warm kitchens.

 

***

The bottle disappears. Chapeau doesn’t know the time, nor does he care. They’ve finished the brandy and moved onto wine, and Chapeau’s head is swimming again. It’s a pleasant sensation this time, aided by the scent of wood smoke, herbs, and a sweet hint of apple pie. The kitchens are warm, Chapeau’s cheeks are flushed, and he is surrounded by his two dearest friends, both of whom are drinking themselves into oblivion right alongside him.

Chapeau is still atop one of the counters, though he’s leaning heavily against the wall for support as his body no longer feels like it belongs to him. Lumière and Cuisinier have spread out across chairs at the table in the kitchens’ center, empty bottles rolling precariously toward their own demise. Chapeau doesn’t think he’s ever heard Cuisinier laugh so much, or sing, but somehow he and Lumière have crafted an entire song about tomorrow’s dinner _and_ dessert. Lumière tried to choreograph a dance to accompany it, but Cuisinier caught him before he took out the cabinet of fine china. There would be no washing dishes while inebriated tonight (which, if you asked any of them, had become their favorite after hours pastime), not if they wanted to be responsible for replacing the expensive dishware out of their own pay. They could not risk attracting more of the Master’s rage.

Lumière is lost to a fit of giggles, which Chapeau can’t quite tell apart from the near hysterics he’d displayed earlier after two glasses of wine when he’d realized how all-consuming and pure his love for Plumette had become. Cuisinier had to keep him from escaping the kitchens and declaring his love to her through the hallways of the castle—not an easy feat.

A voice breaks through their revelry. At first, Chapeau believes he’s imagined it, the voice that carries like a warm spring breeze and reminds him of dappled sunshine and roses whiter than new-fallen snow. But suddenly she is there at the bottom of the service stairway, wrapped in her warmest dressing gown and slippers against the chill of the nighttime castle.

“Monsieur Lumière,” she greets, unperturbed by the state of the kitchens. “Monsieur Cuisinier.”

Lumière and Cuisinier scramble from their chairs in their hurry to show proper respects toward the lady of the castle, and in the end, Cuisinier is the one holding Lumière up. He offers a nervous giggle and a disarming smile for his efforts.

“Madame Maria-Eleanor.” His answer comes with a soft hiccup that he is too late to stifle. “How may we be of service to you at this hour?” Another hiccup.

Despite the utter lack of decorum, she smiles. “Thank you, but it’s Monsieur Chapeau that I need to speak with. Alone, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Chapeau’s heart feels as if it will leap from his chest. The sound of his name renders him sober, so suddenly that the nausea returns. It’s a cruel twist of fate for the Master to send her down here to deliver the news. But it’s not unlike him to be so cruel.

“But of course,” Lumière replies, and Chapeau hears all traces of mirth leave his friend. “We will be on our way. Right, Cuisinier?”

And with that, they are alone, and Chapeau’s fate has already been decided. The fire, burning low now, continues to pop and crackle in the heavy silence. Chapeau’s palms are slick with perspiration and he can hear the anxious rhythm of his pulse in his ears. It’s unusual for the _princesse_ to be here at all, but dressed in her nightclothes, her hair gathered over one shoulder in a tangle of golden waves, it feels too… _close_.

She’s hesitant when she approaches, but once she does, Chapeau discovers they are almost level with one another. There is still a sadness in her eyes, but he finds, thankfully, that there are no outward signs that the Master has laid his hand on her. She rubs soothing circles across her growing belly in an absentminded way, the hem of her dressing gown dragging against his breeches. They are so close that Chapeau can smell the lavender from her soap underneath the kitchen’s overpowering wood smoke and herbs.

“When should I be expected to have my belongings together?” Chapeau asks, if only to break the quiet.

Her brows knit together. “What are you talking about?”

“I assume my job here at the castle has been eliminated, effective immediately,” he clarifies, hopping down from the counter. The glass dangling from his fingertips, he escapes the intoxicating aroma of lavender to settle himself at the vacated table. “Per your husband’s request.”

The last of the wine sloshes into his glass and stains the tablecloth. He doesn’t look up, but he hears the scrape of the chair beside him. Now, the smell of lavender is in escapable, her knee knocking gently against his.

“I spoke with him, yes,” Princess Maria-Eleanor replies. Chapeau’s throat seizes up. “It took convincing…I don’t know where I found the courage to speak so plainly, but I assured my husband that you would not cross him again.”

Chapeau finally looks at her, mouth agape. “And he…accepted this?”

“It took much more than that.” She grins. “But you needn’t worry yourself with the details. You are to stay here, so long as you mind your behavior. I don’t know how much sway I hold if it should happen again.”

“It won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not entirely,” Chapeau laughs, then takes a sip of his wine, trying to avoid her eyes. But she’s _right there_ , unavoidable despite his best efforts, her gaze never leaving him. She laughs, too; it’s a pleasant, musical sound that lights up her entire face. The ache in his head lessens somewhat, knowing that he can ease the haunted look in her eyes.

It doesn’t last long. Time seems to halt around them as she reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against his bruised cheekbone. Her touch is soft, soothing, when she holds his damaged face in the warmth of her palm.

“Look at what he’s done to you,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“It looks worse,” Chapeau lies. “I suffer it gladly, knowing he hasn’t harmed you or the child.”

“You could have lost _everything_.” Princess Maria-Eleanor tells him. Chapeau is reeling from her insistent touch, the tears that well in the endless blue of her eyes. “Am I really worth that?”

“Why would you not think so?” He settles his hand on top of hers, though it feels dangerous—all of this shouldn’t be happening; not her hand upon his cheek, the pair of them so close, speaking like this.

She makes a noise between a sigh and a sob that Chapeau cannot quite decipher. Her thumb sweeps across his cheekbone, making his heart skip its rhythm. Surely this is a dream and he is still lost in the haze of drunkenness, imagining her affection.

“Goodnight, _monsieur_.” Her lips brush against his cheek, a gesture so brief that this time he’s now certain he has dreamed it. “Sleep well.”

She leaves him, then, but the scent of lavender lingers after she’s gone. Her kiss echoes on his skin well into the night, carrying him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are much appreciated!!


	4. Restless and Wandering

The air is suffused with roses. Her favorite little drawing room, a place of sanctuary in this drafty, secluded castle, has been transformed these past few weeks. Though they’ve barely been allowed a word to one another—royal duties and preparations for the child’s arrival have kept her preoccupied—Maria-Eleanor knows who is responsible. She dances around the room, bright with sunshine and warmed by a breeze that stirs the curtains and the gentle curls that fall across her shoulders. The last breath of summer ghosts along the back of her neck; soon the gardens will begin their slow descent into autumn and the days will be short and cold and dark.

Soon there will be a child born to the castle.

Breathing in deeply, Maria-Eleanor finds the bouquet of white roses in the same place they’ve been arranged the past few weeks. A ray of sunlight catches the surface of the silver bowl overflowing with white petals, droplets of water clinging to them. She’s never seen them wilt. Before they even have a chance to shrink and lose their stark snowy color, she discovers a fresh bouquet left out for her. The roses have become part of the room now, filling the space with their earthy floral scent, the sofas and armchairs saturated in it. It feels as though she is back in the colonnade. _No_ , she thinks, tugging a single rose from the neat arrangement, _it’s better than that_. It makes her think of _home_ , of her childhood bedroom where the roses nearly reach her window.

The rose’s soft petals tickle the end of her nose. Seven months have passed since their talk under the colonnade…had he really remembered that small, wondrous detail about her home in England? Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised; in all things, he is quiet, but remarkably observant. A natural listener. She supposes that must be why it had been so easy to speak with him, even if it meant breaking certain rules that set royalty apart from the servant staff.

Though she was familiar with life among the nobility, Maria wasn’t always keen on its never-ending propriety. Marrying a wealthy prince had come with entirely new and relentless protocols to adhere to, and it seemed enduring the prince himself had been the most difficult challenge of all.

Her husband never presented her with something as sentimental as a rose.

She cannot even consider their unborn child as a gift bestowed upon her, for her condition came about by force, duty-bound as the princess. Francois expects Maria to give him a son—more importantly, an heir, someone to carry his royal blood and continue his oppressive reign.

Heaven help her if she should instead present him with a daughter.

Either way, he is not a man fit to be a husband nor a father. Maria has found him to be a selfish, unaffectionate, and hostile beast, cold and distant like the very castle they reside in. He made weak attempts to hide his true nature when the arrangements for their marriage were settled, but Maria did not discover how truly wicked he could be until she arrived in France. And by then, it was too late.

At times, the enormity of this old castle and Francois’ preoccupation with his work is a blessing in disguise. But then the loneliness creeps in and Maria is powerless to its hold. Who knew that a marriage could be so empty? That being surrounded by such wealth could not satisfy?

Maria plucks the rose from its stem and folds it into her hair above her left ear. Her hands are restless, just like her. They roam across the keys of the pianoforte that sits nearby, searching, remembering, but never striking a note. A thin layer of dust floats into the sunlight around her fingertips, sparkling like gold. She hasn’t touched it in weeks, though she can feel a song thrumming in her veins. It’s not ready yet, for she hasn’t found the right words. But there will be a day soon, Maria thinks, when she will sing again and her fingers will find the right notes.

Today the lonely castle cannot satisfy her, and her heart is wandering.

 ***

Maria-Eleanor finds Monsieur Chapeau in her husband’s dressing room, immersed in his daily chores. He cuts an impressive, lean figure in a suit the color of new spring leaves, working in silence except for the wordless tune she hears him humming. He is efficient and precise in his movements, folding her husband’s clothes and setting them away in their respective drawers. The room is tidy with nothing out of line; her husband’s shaving implements, face powders, and wigs are assembled across tables, lying in wait. A collection of fabric swatches has been left on a chair; presumably, the two had been discussing the latest fashion and perhaps ordering new suits before her husband dashed off to bury himself beneath paperwork.

Just as well.

She lingers in the doorway to watch him just a few moments longer before crossing the threshold. The second he notices her, she sees him freeze, as if holding his breath, as if her being there is a disruption in his perfectly balanced world. And in some ways, she supposes, it is. Maria does not set foot in this room often, if ever. But there’s something else in the look that flashes across his face; Maria cannot find the words for it, and it’s long gone before she can even make sense of it. Quickly, he recovers, offering a bow. When he rights himself, his dark eyes wander upward to the rose perched in her hair.

“My lady,” he says, in the reserved tone she’s come to expect from him, “how can I be of service?”

“It’s an absolutely beautiful summer day that should not be wasted inside,” she answers. “I was hoping you would accompany me into the village.”

“Oh.” He is hesitant. “I do not think the Master will allow my absence, all things considered.”

“He’ll be buried under paperwork and correspondence until suppertime,” Maria tells him. “And, he has many more willing servants around here to attend to him. He can spare you for a few hours, I’m sure, _monsieur_.”

“If he discovers me gone—”

Maria grins, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “He won’t. We’ll return before he even realizes we’ve left. You have family in Villeneuve, do you not?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I imagine it’s been quite a while since you’ve seen them. A visit is long overdue.”

“Are you…well enough to travel?” he asks, gaze falling to her hand. These days it has found its place, settled on top of her swollen stomach, as if by instinct.

“Yes, quite well,” Maria assures. “I think an afternoon in Villeneuve will do us all some good.”

The interior of the carriage is near stifling in the late summer heat. Maria bears it, knowing the ride into the village is short and the humid air will be less oppressive in the valley, but she is uncomfortable under layers of petticoats. The extra weight she carries around her middle makes it all the more insufferable; her clothes stick to her skin despite her attempts to stir cool air into her general direction with the use of a fan. In the end, she folds it back up and tosses it on the empty seat beside her.

Longing has made its home on Chapeau’s face. He looks like a man of Villeneuve now, having divested of his wig in favor of a cocked hat, at her own insistence. Maria knows well what it is like to be separated from one’s home, to be thrown into an unfamiliar life. Her husband be damned, their servant staff should be able to visit their loved ones whenever they wished and not be held prisoner to him and his castle. If Francois would not permit her to see her family, it was the least she could do in allowing Chapeau—for all the kindness he’d bestowed upon her—to see his own.

The tension drains from Maria's body the further they travel from the castle. The silence she shares with Chapeau is companionable and pleasant, mid-afternoon sunlight passing in and out of the carriage while they jostle along the dirt roads through the thick forest. Chapeau stares out the window at the passing trees, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, the light turning his dark eyes amber. She knows that some part of him is glad to be free of the castle, too, though he won’t speak it aloud.

Somehow she has become very aware of the way his knees knock against hers as he sits opposite her. It’s not a nuisance, but a comfort. A familiarity.

She breathes in the scent of roses and Chapeau’s perfume, a mix of earthy spices and orange and bergamot. “Thank you, _monsieur_.” She breaks the quiet, gently. “For the roses in my drawing room. I haven’t had a chance to thank you until now, but I appreciate them more than you can possibly know.”

Chapeau looks at her for the first time since they settled into the carriage. “I am glad for that, _madame_.” He folds his hands in his lap. Maria senses his reluctance, but he continues nevertheless. “If it is not too bold of me to ask, how did you come to France? I…assume your marriage to the Master was arranged, no?”

Maria sighs. “It was not for love.” Her eyes wander far away, out the window and beyond. “I have not been so fortunate in my short life to experience such magic.”

When she finds him again, after she has kept the tears at bay, he’s watching her intently. Maria shifts under the weight of his stare, avoiding the confusion that has formed creases between his eyebrows.

“My marriage was the price paid for my father’s debts.”

The creases between his brows deepen. “Your father _sold_ you to him?”

Maria nods. “My father was a terrible gambler and saw no other way out,” she says. “I do not think my mother will ever forgive him for it, even in death. And Francois enjoys using it as a bargaining chip at every opportunity, though my family’s debts have long since been paid. He threatens to bankrupt them if I do not bend to his will, he detests them so.”

“And you had no say in the matter.” Maria shakes her head, sighing again. “Are you resentful? Of your father’s actions?”

“I did what was asked of me,” she answers. “At the time of their meeting, my father understood Francois to be a gentleman. He was distant, and only interested in business, but my father died believing he had secured a good future for me. What father does not wish their daughter to be the wife of a wealthy prince?”

She envisions her home, somewhere far out the window, beyond the mountains and the sea. “In some ways, I believed it, too. I thought I would be able to do my duty as wife and princess, and that my love for him would follow. But then Francois turned cruel and…I knew that he would not love me. I’m nothing more to him than a prize, only useful if I give him a male heir.”

“You do not deserve such unkindness, my lady,” Chapeau says. “Know that.”

“What I deserve does not matter now,” Maria whispers, swiping at a tear in the corner of her eye. “There’s nothing for it.”

“It matters,” he insists, and Maria swears she can hear the “ _to me”_ attached to the end of his sentence that he doesn’t speak aloud. “It does, I assure you.”

Their conversation from the night she wandered down to the kitchens to find him broken and still bleeding echoes in her ear:

_Am I really worth that?_

_Why would you not think so?_

Maria sees Chapeau’s hand flex against his knee, mere inches from where her own fingers have burrowed into her petticoats. She thinks for a moment that he will reach out for her hand, but he doesn’t allow it. Maria considers it in her mind’s eye: her grasping for his fingers, holding one of his hands between both of hers. She had left a kiss on his cheek that night in the kitchens, had held his face in her palm. Why could she not bring herself to cross that line within the tiny confines of this carriage, far away from her husband’s reign?

Before she can decide, Chapeau’s attention is drawn to the window, where the familiar buildings of Villeneuve have finally broken through the relentless forest. Maria is thankful for the prospect of escape: from this carriage, from Francois, and perhaps, from uncertain feelings that her heart cannot make sense of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out once again to my friend tinydooms, whose amazing and heartbreaking backstory for Maria features in this chapter. If you're not reading her fic "Belle, Book, and Candle," you need to be doing that. 
> 
> Kudos and comments (especially comments!!) are much appreciated. :)


	5. Home

_Home._

Chapeau fills his lungs with sweet, fragrant air—wildflowers and fresh grass, last night’s rain still clinging to leaves and petals. They’ve left their carriage on the outskirts of the village, but even from this distance he can hear the familiar sounds of afternoon foot traffic and smell warm, crisp bread baking. For all his desire to leave this small town, Chapeau finds himself happy to be home again; he feels lighter, the sunlight on his face a comfort. Perhaps Madame was right to drag him away from the dimly lit halls of the castle, where his sole company for the afternoon would have been his own footsteps striking against stone floors.

Princess Maria-Eleanor’s silk petticoats sway when he helps her down from the carriage. She had insisted on changing before they departed the castle, and Chapeau had found himself stunned—as if a fist had connected to his ribs, and he knew the feeling well—at the sight of her walking down the grand staircase. Bright hues, the Villeneuve style he’d grown up with and brought to the castle. She wore the color of violets, lace about her elbows and neckline, paired with a gorgeous jeweled necklace that shimmered now in the sun. A woven hat tied into a bow beneath her chin, delicate silk to match the color of her gown.

She’d left the white rose tucked into her hair.

His heart skips its rhythm as she keeps her arm locked tightly around his. The shadow cast over her face from her hat turns her eyes dark blue when she smiles up at him, and for a moment he has to remember to breathe.

“Lead the way, _monsieur_ ,” she says.

Chapeau nods. It’s all he can do against the rising panic in his chest. He isn’t particularly worried that the Master will misconstrue this situation and twist it into something it isn’t. In fact, he’s no longer concerned about the Master finding out at all. It’s the _responsibility_ he’s now undertaken. Emile Chapeau, a simple man, a violinist’s son, escorting the _princesse_ through _his_ village? _Non_! How could he ever dream of this?

His mind races. _What am I doing?_

It feels strange, somehow, to be without his wig, the fashionable formalities he’d become accustomed to during his months at the castle. The cocked hat he’d worn the morning he had shown up on the doorstep with Villeneuve at his back had replaced it, a relic from his late father. Madame had wanted them to fit in with the villagers. An easy task for Chapeau, who is not so far removed from his home, but less so for Maria-Eleanor. She is _radiant_ , and he knows the people enjoy her company more than _le prince_ , who cannot be bothered to show his face among them. Chapeau thinks that’s probably for the best, what with the way taxes keep climbing.

“Where shall we go?” Chapeau manages to ask once they approach the village square.

It’s a riot of color and sound—rushing feet, children screaming while they weave through legs and merchant tables. Vendors calling out their wares from brightly painted carts. Hearty laughter rising against the distance strains of music inside the doors of the tavern. The boys from the nearby school gather around the fountain, tossing stones into the water. Chapeau breathes in again, a little calmer, and is greeted with the scent of flowers, this time from the florist across the square.

Chapeau notices her attention has been captured by the boys kicking up water in the fountain, her hand resting gently, perhaps absently, on her stomach.

“ _Madame_ ,” he tries again softly. “Where would you like to go?”

She’s still watching them, transfixed. “Home—your home, _monsieur_ ,” she answers, and he wonders if the stumble is intentional or not. “I should like to meet your family.”

“Surely there are more pressing mat—”

She looks up at him, her eyes earnest, her grip tightening ever so slightly on his arm. “You’ve been away from them for _months_. I know what that longing is like, tenfold. You have the luxury of having them close by, yet Francois has been cruel to deprive you of them.” She sighs. “It is my thank you for putting your job and well-being at risk for me.”

“You have already done enough,” Chapeau assures, “by keeping me employed at the castle.”

Maria-Eleanor smiles. “I know we haven’t had much opportunity to speak to one another these past few weeks,” she says, and dips her head, her face in shadow. Her hip knocks into his while they walk; he can tell she’s not yet ready to be discovered by the villagers. “I _am_ sorry for that.”

“You have more important business to attend to,” Chapeau agrees. “I am not offended. Not when there’s a child to prepare for.”

“I confess,” her voice drops just a little, a whisper only for him to hear. “I’ve very much missed your company. And if you’ll indulge me, Monsieur Chapeau, I would like to meet your family. I want to know where you come from.”

 _I want to know_ you. She doesn’t say it, but Chapeau can almost hear it in her voice if he tries. He shouldn’t. He knows that he shouldn’t tread that path, but he finds himself on it nevertheless.

“I must warn you,” he replies, allowing himself a small grin, “my family is not as quiet as I am.”

Maria-Eleanor laughs. It’s a rare sound, but whenever he’s allowed the special privilege of hearing it, he’s likened it to music. Not the melody that he stirs from his violin, but rather something else he can’t conjure a name for.

It’s then that he hears the whispers around them: a hush that ripples through the crowd of villagers who are now throwing discreet glances in their direction. _It’s the_ princesse, they murmur. _It’s her_. It doesn’t surprise Chapeau that she’s been noticed. She must have expected it, perhaps even prepared for it, but he can’t blame her for wanting to sink into anonymity for just a little while longer.

She lifts her head, gives them a smile that radiates like the sun. He knows she loves the people and wishes she could do more for them in spite of the Master, but her grip on his arm also tells him that royal life carries with it a weariness that he can’t fully understand.

They come to a halt in the middle of the square, surrounded on all sides by awed villagers, boys clambering and pushing each other on the edge of the fountain to catch a glimpse of the _princesse_. Women and their daughters offer their curtsies, men doff their hats and bow before her. Others kiss her hand, offer her flowers or some small, handmade trinkets that Chapeau is quick to gather up for her. There’s a barrage of well wishes for her and the child’s health, congratulations for the upcoming arrival of the newest prince or princess. Chapeau watches her greet each one with grace and kindness, hoping to fade into the background, hoping to remain unseen.

When at last she takes her leave, Chapeau maneuvers the gifts so that she can resume her place at his side, arm entwined with his. He hears different whispers as they retreat into the crowd, people parting to clear the way for them. _Emile_ , some of them say, and he offers what he thinks might be a smile despite his unease at their attention. _The milliner’s son?_ And fewer, perhaps young men he’d grown up with in some sense: _the street fighter_.

Chapeau shakes his head at the memories, the bruises, the split lips dripping blood across the cobblestones. What a raucous adolescent he’d been. Maria-Eleanor presses into his side, the corner of her lips quirking in a grin to match his.

“What is it?”

“Perhaps some other time.”

“I would not be so surprised to learn that you’ve fighter’s blood in you,” she says.

“You have a keen ear, _Madame_.”

“So the whispers _are_ indeed true?” Her eyes are alight, her mouth slightly agape. They’ve left the crowds, though Chapeau can still somehow feel their intrusive gazes. The sign of his mother’s shop is in view, and his heart gives a little leap.

“Much to my mother’s chagrin,” Chapeau concedes.

“You _must_ tell me all about it,” Maria-Eleanor says, pulling him to a stop, her eyes still sparkling with curiosity.

“Perhaps some other time,” he repeats. He doesn’t exactly want to divulge the more dubious parts of his adolescence to the _princesse_ , but she’s so insistent that he thinks it would be a conversation left for the quiet of night, in the kitchens over a cup of tea when neither of them can sleep.

“I shall hold you to it.” She’s determined. Chapeau knows she won’t soon forget; he’ll have to own up to those stories, those whispers, even if he’s not proud of them. (He’s proud of _some_ of them; mostly the ones that involve bets.)

His mother’s shop is just how he’d left it months ago, with the exception of the hats perched on their stands in the windows and outside on the cobblestones—the latest fashion, never a moment behind. The sheer curtains billow in the afternoon breeze, the windows flung open to reveal the pastels and overabundant pink and lace inside. Chapeau hears Maria-Eleanor gasp beside him.

“ _Emile!_ ” Before he can breathe a word, his mother rushes out the front doors to wrap him in an embrace, causing all of the trinkets to scatter across the ground. She tugs him away only to kiss his cheeks, then crushes him into another hug until his arms relent around her. “Oh, it’s so good to have you home! What a surprise this is!”

His mother lets go the moment she spots the _princesse_ over his shoulder. Flustered, she offers a curtsy and bows her head.

“Please forgive me in my haste, _princesse_ ,” his mother says. “It is an honor to have you in my shop. I must say, we’re all very eager here in Villeneuve awaiting the arrival of the newest royal.” She beams at the prospect; Chapeau knows his mother has a taste for gossip, not borne of pettiness but rather a dream for a life more luxurious than her own. “And we are _so proud_ —my Emile working at your grand castle! I trust he’s been an asset to you and the prince. He is a hard worker, my boy.”

“It’s quite all right, Madame Chapeau,” she answers, her eyes flicking to his for the briefest of moments. She laughs as Chapeau tries to hide his blushing face by retrieving the items strewn around their feet. “Your son has been a welcome addition to our castle, I assure you. And he’s been most kind to escort me into the village and show me his home.”

“Of course!” His mother is breathless, starry-eyed. “Do come in. Right this way…I hope you don’t mind the clutter— _girls_! Girls, come down here! Make yourselves presentable— _Princesse_ Maria-Eleanor has come to our shop!”

Chapeau deposits the gifts into a woven basket, removing his hat and tucking it beneath his arm. He can’t look at the _princesse_ , can barely breathe while listening to the thunder of his sisters’ footsteps down the staircase that climbs up into their home. His face is scarlet; he feels the heat across his cheeks, blazing on the tips of his ears.

He studies the lengths of lace and ribbons, the finished pieces ready for sale, until two curly-haired girls not more than ten years of age bounce down the stairs and collide into one other. They’re a flurry of flower-patterned gowns and lace and excitement, shoving at each other to be the first to curtsy before their princess. For all their noise, Maria-Eleanor seems to be charmed by them.

“I’m Eloise.”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Eloise,” she says. “And you, _mademoiselle_?”

“Eliana.” She curtsies again. There’s a bright grin lighting up her face, a rosy color blossoming over her cheeks.

“What a pretty name,” Madame tells her.

Chapeau lifts an eyebrow. _Two._ _Two?_

“Maman,” he says softly. “Where is Elise?”

A shadow passes across his mother’s face, and for a second, Chapeau’s heart plummets.

“She’s taken ill, I’m afraid,” his mother answers, as Eloise and Eliana finally fling themselves at him, squealing and shouting his name.

Chapeau bears their weight, hugging them to his chest until Eliana hops up to tangle her arms around his neck. Eloise follows suit and jumps onto his back, wrapping herself around the back of his neck as if he’d wear her like an overcoat. He would try to shoo them away, but the effort would be useless, in the presence of the _princesse_ or not. It was an old game from when the triplets were a little smaller and Chapeau was all long limbs and angles. Not much of him had changed save for age, but now that this sisters had grown, the game had turned more treacherous.

“Nothing too serious, I hope?” he hears Madame ask. Chapeau’s hat tumbles away from his reach, his sisters giggling and teasing as they try to bring him down with it.

“No, thank God,” his mother says, a hand to her chest. “The doctor’s been by, says she’ll be over it in a week’s time. Poor child has been in bed for the past three days, sleeping through the worst of it. She’s been asking after you, Emile.” At this, his head snaps up. He sets Eliana and Eloise back on the floor, on their feet, gently as he can manage. “She’s been wanting to hear your violin.”

“Has she?” Chapeau asks, at the same time Maria-Eleanor inquires, “You play the violin?”

“Oh yes,” his mother gushes. “He’s a _wonderful_ violinist…just like his father was. Emile played at the tavern before he came to work at your castle. He hasn’t told you?”

“Not a word.” Maria-Eleanor stares at him pointedly, the same look returning to her eyes that he’d seen earlier when she’d asked for the gritty details about his fighting.

He ducks past her questioning eyes to retrieve his hat from the floor. “I did not bring my violin to the castle.”

“Why?” Maria-Eleanor asks, untying the bow of her hat to remove it. Chapeau takes another breath at the sight of the rose nestled in her blonde curls, a constant reminder to disrupt the rhythm of his heart.

“I supposed I would not have time for it,” he says. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see after Elise.”

“Of course.”

The _princesse_ is still staring at him; he can feel it, even if he can’t see it. Chapeau remembers to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this one long chapter but decided to break it up for more of Maria's POV next chapter. 
> 
> Hope you are enjoying this still! Kudos & comments are much appreciated!


	6. The Violinist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is MUCH longer than I ever thought it would be, but I guess it makes up for not updating for a bit.

Home smells of dust and sunshine and the barest hint of rosewater, a combination so intense that the homesickness settles in Chapeau’s heart. Specks of dust drift lazily in the long, narrow slats of midday sun climbing across the walls and roughhewn floor, sparkling like gold. Their modest parlor is cramped but well-appointed, lived-in and worn in the coziest of ways. Plush armchairs and secondhand tables, a large patterned rug passed down from his father’s family line. His sisters’ handmade dolls sit abandoned on the floor, his mother’s half-finished needlepoint left on a table next to the melted stump of a candle in its tarnished holder.

Over the hearth, the image of a ghost in a heavy, brass frame: the portrait of his father, for whom he was named, clad in his military uniform. The soldiering life had taken him from them; a life he had entered when the music from his violin hadn’t been enough to feed their growing family. Chapeau pauses before the unlit hearth, eyes trying to reconcile the man with whom he now bears a striking resemblance; the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the tall, lean build of his frame, his dark yet amiable eyes.

All of his strongest memories of his father are like music—the gentle rush of notes, the sweet and melancholy, fleeting and joyous. He is thankful to have them, for his sisters’ recollections are akin to the phantom image that perches over their drawing room, something that might’ve been there once, a glimpse of a face and perhaps a faint scent, not quite real. Someone else’s memories.

Chapeau crosses the parlor, stepping over a forgotten doll to reach the closed door of his own room. His fingers slide along the handle when a small noise behind him captures his attention. Turning on his heel, he’s greeted by a kitten, a fluffy little orange thing with its tail wrapped demurely around its paws. It peers up at him, giving a soft meow as if asking what business Chapeau had in the house.

“You’re new,” Chapeau says, lowering to one knee.

His fingertips hover in front of the inquisitive kitten’s face, and he’s pleased when it gives him an appraising sniff before pushing its tiny head into his palm. The kitten purrs louder than he expects, large green eyes closing in contentment as Chapeau scratches beneath its chin. He rises, the kitten trailing behind him, and pushes open the door to his bed chamber. The hinges offer a groan, perhaps from disuse, and lights spills onto the floor from the drawing room windows. The kitten prances in between Chapeau’s legs, then leaps onto the center of the bed, another meow beckoning him into the room. 

It’s just as he left it, everything in its proper place. A small, sparsely furnished room overlooking the village square. Tidy like the quarters he kept back at the castle. He used to rise every morning with the sounds of the village coming to life beneath his window, used to listen to the distant trickle of the fountain at night to lull him to sleep. It looked as though his mother hadn’t set foot in its since his departure all those months ago; a thin layer of dust had obscured the furnishings and collected on the window sill, some of it stirred up by Chapeau’s movements around the floor.

“Make yourself at home, I suppose,” Chapeau tells the kitten, watching it knead at the quilt draped across the bed. “I wonder what the girls have called you, hmm?”

The kitten blinks at him, then settles down on the quilt with a yawn. Chapeau shakes his head, bending to grab the violin case underneath his bed. Dust has claimed it, too, but that was his fault. It had sat untouched for far too long, and now that he held the worn leather case in his hands, he wondered what had possessed him to leave it behind. His fingers ached to draw music from it again, to reawaken one of the remaining links he still had to his father.

“Well, come on, then,” he calls to the kitten from the threshold. It acknowledges the offer with a slow blink, tiny head tucked between its paws. Chapeau leaves the door open. 

The floorboards protest beneath his feet as he maneuvers down the narrow hallway to the girls’ shared bed chamber. The door is open, a wide swath of bright sunshine catching the buckles on his shoes. He supposes this is where the kitten had come from, before it had been alerted to his intrusion. The room once belonged to his parents, but the arrival of three newborn girls at one time had left them scrambling to convert it into a nursery. They had been expecting two babies at most; the third had been quite a surprise, upending their life for the better, Chapeau believed, even if it had strained their finances.

The room is all pastel pink and ivory and yellow, papered walls and lace trimmed curtains and subtle floral patterns. It’s also a great mess, a room Chapeau has never seen in order since the day his sisters came screaming into the world. The floor is a mosaic of leftovers from the shop below, unused fabric swatches and extra satin ribbon mingling with outdated fashion plates and wrinkled stockings left in a knot.

“Emile!” comes the hoarse squeal from one of the two beds the moment Chapeau pokes his head into the room. “Emile, you’re _here_!”

Before he can even make an attempt to stop her, Elise crawls out from under layers of linens and quilts, moving on her knees to join him near the edge of the bed. He lets his case drop softly onto the rug and Elise flings her arms around his neck, holding onto him as tightly as she can manage. For as much as the triplets have irritated him over the years with their constant gossip and noise and squabbling, Chapeau has missed them. Dearly.

Chapeau pats the small of her back. “Back into bed with you,” he says, using that mildly authoritative yet affectionate tone bestowed to him by his status as the elder sibling.

Elise is reluctant to let go, but she settles back under the bed covers, her hair an unkempt tangle of chocolate curls, her cheeks somewhat rosy. She sighs and sinks into her cocoon of pillows, dragging a doll to her chest. Chapeau perches on the edge of the bed by her knee, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead as if it’s an instinct. There’s no trace of fever, but the ravages of her illness are still present: her complexion pallid, the shadows beneath her wide, dark eyes staring up at him as if they’re glass.

“How are you feeling?”

Elise sighs again, then sniffles. “Better.” Her gaze sweeps over him, then beyond his shoulder. “Is it true?” she whispers. “Is the princess _really_ here?”

Chapeau’s stomach does a graceless somersault. “Downstairs at this very moment.”

Tears well in Elise’s eyes. “Eliana said I couldn’t come,” she tells him, a disappointed whine creeping into her voice. “Now I’ll _never_ get to meet her!”

“Oh, that’s not true, Ellie,” Chapeau assures her. “I’m employed at the castle now. There will be other meetings, I’m certain of it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise you.” He cards his fingers through her tousled hair, then pokes the end of her nose with one slender fingertip. Elise giggles, furiously wiping at her tears with her fists. “And you’ll be up and about again in no time.”

There’s a demanding meow from somewhere near Chapeau’s feet. The kitten rubs against his ankles, winding circles around his legs before joining Elise on the bed. It lands on her stomach, provoking a startled yelp from Elise that quickly dissolves into more giggles. Elise brushes her knuckles along its soft fur, her thumb scratching behind one of its ears.

“I met your new friend earlier,” Chapeau says. “What have you called him?”

“ _Her_ ,” Elise corrects, her voice strained but firm. She gives him a look as if he should’ve known that.

“Right,” he agrees. “I shouldn’t presume.”

“Her name is Lacey, because she likes to play with the spools of lace in the shop,” Elise explains, the kitten making herself comfortable on top of Elise’s chest. “We found her weeks ago near in the chapel. Maman let us keep her.”

“Maman has always wanted a kitten,” he confesses. Lacey’s purring fades, her spring green eyes drifting closed.

“She has?”

“Since I was a boy, maybe even before that,” he explains. “Papa couldn’t stand to be around them. They gave him terrible sneezing fits.”

Elise giggles, sniffling again, the look on her face wistful. It’s as if Chapeau was describing a stranger, but he knew the triplets enjoyed his quiet anecdotes about their father nonetheless.

Chapeau pats Elise’s hand, breaking their shared reverie. “Shall I play for you, then, _ma chère_?”

“Yes,” Elise answers, her eyes brighter than they’d been since she had embraced him. “ _Please_ , Emile?”

He slides off the edge of her bed to collect his violin case, resting it on a chair that’s blessedly free from the triplets’ mess. The locks snap open in a flurry of dust, and at once, Chapeau finds his father’s violin—one of his most precious heirlooms—nestled among rich crimson velvet. The instrument feels familiar in his hands, a comfort Chapeau has missed more than he realized. He cannot stop the wave of memories that accompany it; the first shaky lessons, Chapeau’s notes dissonant and sour until, at last, they rang clear and beautiful. His father had been patient, had seen the potential in him even though Chapeau could not find it himself. Chapeau had been so frustrated in those early days, the harsh notes burning against his ears, sounding nothing like the music that his father seemed to conjure with effortless precision.

“What would you like to hear?”

 

***

“Here you are, _princesse_.” Madame Chapeau slides a chair across the shop floor, patting its upholstered seat. “Carrying a child is such a strain on your back. I remember the pain very well indeed.” She offers a radiant smile as Maria-Eleanor settles into it. “The tea’ll be ready in just a moment—please, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you.” Maria-Eleanor folds her hands over the hat resting in her lap, toying with the silk ribbon.

“Are you hungry? I’m afraid we have nothing like what you might be used to, but there’s some fresh pastries in the kitchen. Baked just this morning.”

“That’s very kind,” Maria-Eleanor answers with a friendly nod. She watches Madame Chapeau bustle around the shop, glowing with an excitable energy that Maria-Eleanor can almost feel as if it held an infectious quality to it.

Chapeau has her luminous smile, Maria has realized, though the occasions on which she has seen it for herself are rare. And never up close. Only from a distance, a fleeting glimpse that as of late had sparked something unfamiliar in her heart. She found herself suddenly longing to provoke it herself, and wondered where on earth the thought had even come from.

His father must have been quiet and orderly, she thinks, pondering just how Chapeau fit into this houseful of sprightly, boisterous ladies.

Madame Chapeau disappears into the cavern of rooms in the back where Maria presumes there is a modest kitchen. The shop smells faintly of rosewater, pleasant and airy with the windows thrown open to welcome the late summer breeze. It’s a tangle of delicate color—mostly pastels; pink and lilac, pale blue and soft green—and small luxuries. Silk and satin abound, lace and fine linens. It’s comfortable, Maria decides, and it makes her homesick for the familiar corridors of her ancestral home in England with well-worn chairs and quilts that smelled of her mother’s perfume. A knot forms in the pit of her stomach, a deep ache that she’s felt like the ebb and flow of the tide since she’d made France her new home.

Maria dabs at a tear in the corner of her eye with her knuckle, sniffling to keep the rest of them in. She’d been raised among the English nobility, but now she would give everything to live like this, a humble little home tucked into the countryside. A little town where she could raise her child away from the clutches of his cruel father, away from duty and titles and the pompous stares of the French court.

It was a dream, nothing more.

 _I’ll write to Mama tonight_ , Maria thinks. _If anything, it will soothe the ache._

Madame Chapeau reappears, her arms laden with a tray that she sets on a worktable where her scattered projects await her return. She hums while she rummages in a far corner—Maria grins a little at that—and produces a circular table that wobbles when she settles it between their chairs. There’s fine porcelain on the tray, two steaming teacups rattling on top of their tiny plates. The dishes around them match, patterned with blue flowers, a small chip in the rim of the bowl of sugar cubes. The pastries, light and flaky and dripping in pearlescent icing, have been arranged on the plate in a haphazard pyramid.

Maria is touched by the care Madame Chapeau has taken, the kindness she has so readily shown her.

She drops two sugar cubes into the deep amber of her tea, her spoon clinking along the sides of the cup. “Thank you, _madame_. I appreciate your hospitality…and I certainly didn’t mean to impose upon you or take away from your afternoon business.”

Madame Chapeau pauses, her own teacup halfway to her lips. “Don’t think of it, my lady,” she insists. “You’re never a bother here.”

Maria takes a long sip of her tea, inhaling the steam. Her gaze wanders out the front windows to where the two young girls have joined the other village children in their games. Their laughter floats into the shop and Maria settles a hand on her rounded stomach, watching them.

“You’ll make a wonderful mother, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Madame Chapeau says. “You have such a way with the villagers.”

Maria hums, rubbing circles across her stomach. “I find the prospect quite terrifying.”

“Every new mother shares the same fear, I promise you,” she assures. “How much longer until the child arrives?”

“A few weeks at most.” Maria takes another sip of tea. “Sooner than I feel prepared for, if I’m honest.”

“You’ll get through it,” Madame Chapeau says. “A woman’s body is remarkable, that I can tell you from experience. More so than I was ever prepared for.” She laughs, and picks at a corner of a pastry.

“Begging your pardon, but I cannot imagine giving birth to three babies at once.”

“Neither could I,” Madame Chapeau admits. “I’ll never forget the look on my husband’s face the night our girls were born. He was quite in awe of them. And of me.”

“Has it been long since he passed?”

“Emile, my son, was barely in his fourteenth year when we received the letter,” she explains. “We were so very much in love, his father and I. He was a romantic. A violinist with not much to his name, and that mattered to my parents, but not to me.” She sighs, her eyes far beyond the walls of her shop. “We eloped to Villeneuve, and made a wonderful life for ourselves.”

Envy slips into her thoughts, and Maria does her best to suppress the worst of it. “Indeed you have.”

Madame Chapeau settles her hand on top of Maria’s. “But enough prattling on about me,” she declares. “You’ll do beautifully, my lady, I know it. And you have all the help you need in that grand castle, no?”

“Yes,” Maria-Eleanor answers, her voice soft. “Of course.”

She takes a bite of a pastry, careful to not make a mess of the icing. “Your son’s friendship has meant a great deal to me these past several months, _madame_ ,” Maria finds herself saying before she can stop. “His place within the castle is invaluable. My husband and I appreciate his service to us.” She adds Francois to salvage the outburst of feelings; it seems too personal, what she’s admitted with ease, even if the woman is Chapeau’s family.

“He is a good man, my Emile,” Madame Chapeau declares. There’s pride on her face, wrinkling the corners of her eyes, and for a moment Maria-Eleanor worries if the woman has found something _else_ in her words, something she doesn’t yet fully understand.

“Yes,” Maria agrees. “Very much so.”

_A better man than Francois could ever dream of being._

More of the pastries are silently devoured, Maria left to ruminate while Madame Chapeau pours them both another cup of tea. The villagers know of her husband’s cruelty; their climbing taxes and his nonexistent appearances tell them enough. To them, he is just a title, a figure who takes more than he gives. There is no way for them to know of the wickedness that has left her body aching and bruised.

 _Unless_ , Maria-Eleanor thinks, her heart lunging toward her throat, _it is a matter of gossip. Could one of the young maids have mentioned it in their letters home? Could Monsieur Chapeau have written to his mother of her husband’s violence against him?_

The music begins just as Maria stirs sugar into her fresh cup of tea, eyes following the swirl of the cubes as they melt. It’s quiet at first, muffled by walls and distance, but Maria is thankful for the way it fills her thoughts, shoving Francois out. She drops her spoon to listen, the strains of violin a little louder, clear notes that float down the staircase to reach them. She’s mesmerized by their sound, the harmony of how well they dance together, how carefully they’ve been composed. It’s a gentle sort of melody, sweet and elegant, something Maria cannot name. She lays a palm on her stomach, swept away by the music until the final note echoes between her and the violinist.  

 

***

 

The carriage is much more crowded than their journey to Villeneuve, an entire seat laden with the gifts the villagers had offered in addition to the bonnets Madame Chapeau had insisted she needn’t pay for. But Maria-Eleanor had spent some money where she could, buying last minute items in preparation for the child’s arrival—another soft blanket for the West Wing nursery, a few handmade toys, fine linen clothing, and a pair of satin shoes the color of fresh cream, embroidered in silver and gold. She had even bought herself a pair of gloves, the delicate silk dyed a faint purple; it would match one of her favorite gowns once she was back to some semblance of her normal shape.

Chapeau’s violin case sits on the floor at their feet, the two of them forced to occupy the same bench for the duration of the ride. It feels closer than that afternoon in the colonnade, more intimate than it has any right to be. Maria-Eleanor tries not to suffocate him with her petticoats, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Even underneath the layers of skirts, she feels the subtle pressure of his hip against hers. It’s once again unbearably warm in this carriage, and Maria hopes her face isn’t flushed.

“I am glad you decided to bring your violin along,” she says to break the comfortable quiet. “You play beautifully.”

His elbow is resting on the window, his fist propped under his chin, but he turns to look at her. “Thank you, my lady,” he answers. “I…had forgotten how much joy it brings me to play it.”

“I know the feeling well,” Maria-Eleanor admits. “It’s as if it’s a part of you, and every time you hear the music, you wonder how you could part with it for so long. It feels like home, does it not?” Chapeau nods. “The pianoforte is that way for me.”

“I could tell,” he says. “I have heard it—your playing, I mean. If I am so fortunate to be in that corridor during the afternoons.”

Maria’s breath hitches. “You have?”

“Yes,” Chapeau replies, the corner of his mouth lifting in the barest of smirks. “On many occasions.”

“I never thought I had an audience,” she says. When the silence settles again, she asks, “What was it you played for your sister?”

“A lullaby,” Chapeau states, picking at a loose thread on his coat. “I started to compose it when the girls were very small, after my father…” He trails off, eyes cast to the landscape outside the window. “It has changed much since then, but the melody remains the same.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Maria is grateful that their shared silences are companionable, never tense, though maybe just a touch awkward. She wonders if it’s _her_ doing, the awkwardness—the complex knot of emotions she doesn’t yet know how to approach. She doesn’t wish to do anything that would harm their friendship, doesn’t want to linger on feelings she has no right to be harboring.

Their carriage trundles along, the forest a blur of emerald green edged by the gold of the evening sun. They’re nearly to the castle when she feels a flutter in her belly. It’s familiar, but it manages to startle her enough every time. Maria gasps, her palm roving across her swollen stomach.

She feels Chapeau’s hand on her arm. “My lady?” he asks, and she meets his dark eyes, heavily creased with worry between his brows. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, quite,” Maria assures him. “The baby is up and about.”

Maria feels the press of tiny hands and feet underneath her fingers. She finds Chapeau’s curious gaze studying the swell of her stomach. “Would you…like to feel it?”

She’s charmed by the way his mouth opens a little, not daring to say a word, the mix of inquisitiveness and awe and something else—she cannot decipher it—written on his face. Maria takes his hand, leading it to where hers had been resting. Once his fingers have found the child’s movements beneath her petticoats, she lays her hand on top of his.

Maria laughs as their eyes meet, a small noise escaping Chapeau’s lips at the strange sensation nudging at his palm. Maria’s thumb brushes across his knuckles; her heart leaps when Chapeau’s breath catches, warm against her neck. He seems to mirror her, his thumb sweeping over the fine silk of her gown as if enchanted by a child he has not even met.

He smiles, a wide grin that’s just as radiant as she hoped it would be.


End file.
